


Crystallize

by brocanteur



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 02:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8352139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/pseuds/brocanteur
Summary: Jamie Moriarty is free to engage in a game with Joan Watson. Will Joan play?Prompt was:    Squicks: I'd prefer no descriptions of sex, I'm much more interested in the romantic side of things.    Optional prompt: something exploring a darker side to Joan, with Moriarty recognising it





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [President Romana (asoldandtrueasthesky)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asoldandtrueasthesky/gifts).



It is June. Outside, the sidewalk steams. Inside of the restaurant, it is chilly. Joan rubs her bare arms. (She watches Moriarty’s gaze drop to the movement of her hands.)

“You killed Elana March.”

“Did I?”

Moriarty’s smile is sharp; crooked; insincere. It is blood-red and beautiful.

“ _Why_ did you kill Elena March?”

The smile dips, transforms, disappears. Moriarty is either bored, or playing at it. 

(She is a free woman. Money buys everything, and Moriarty is free. She could easily walk away from this.

Instead, they sit across from one another, Joan and Moriarty. Moriarty chose the restaurant. Déjà vu.)

“The only thing I admit to,” Moriarty equivocates, “is keeping you safe, dear Watson.”

“Not safe. Alive. Alive for your game.”

Moriarty leans forward. (Joan leans back.)

“And isn’t it preferable, being alive for our game instead of dead? Wouldn’t you like to learn the rules? As you can see, I am now free to engage. What say you, Watson? Would you care to play?”

 _Yes_ rises up in Joan’s throat, and that the word almost pushes from between her lips is more frightening than any other brush with danger she has had in a long time. That impulse, that _desire_ , makes her want to run. She doesn’t. She finishes her wine, sipping at a careful, measured pace. No more is said between them, but Moriarty’s gaze is constant, unrelenting.

*****

It is December. The sky is clear but darkening as the day draws quickly to a close. Joan is standing in front of Bergdorf Goodman, looking at its ornate display windows, done up for the holidays. She holds a cup of coffee bought at a nearby deli, mostly to warm her hands, as she has forgotten her gloves at home. 

A woman walks by with a shopping bag and Joan briefly considers going inside the store, if only to distract herself from the nervous energy making her skin hum; she decides against it. She is not here for distractions. She does not deserve distractions.

She is meeting someone she should not be meeting, doing something she has no right to do. 

Jamie Moriarty is late.

 _Five more minutes,_ Joan decides, unhappy with herself, with having created the situation she is now in.

(What would Sherlock say? What would he do? Joan knows, but she pushes that information down deep as it can go.)

She drinks the rest of her coffee and crushes the cup in her hand. Just as she’s turning to leave, someone takes her by the elbow. She jerks, but when she looks up she sees it’s only Moriarty. 

(Only Moriarty.)

“I’m sorry I kept you,” Moriarty says. 

She’s holding out a Bergdorf’s bag for Joan. Joan takes it, opens it to find: a pair of expensive leather gloves.

“Thank you.”

“Have you something for me?”

There is a piece of paper in Joan’s pocket, and on it there is a name and an address written in pencil. She hands Moriarty the note.

Moriarty glances at it.

“What did this man do?”

“He murdered a child.”

Moriarty’s jaw clenches. Joan sees it.

“Aren’t you going to ask if I’m sure?” Joan asks. 

“No,” Moriarty says. 

“There’s proof. I can show you proof that was dismissed on tech—“

“I don’t care.”

*****

The man disappears. He is never seen again. Sherlock wonders whether he has left the country, or taken up somewhere else under an assumed name. He digs, a bit, and Joan wants to tell him, “Don’t. He isn’t worth it. Let it go.”

There is guilt, but Joan ignores it. There are other things deserving of her attention, and her help.

*****

They don’t speak of it, Joan and Moriarty, not when they meet again two months later. There is ice on the ground and no sun in the sky. Central Park is empty. They stand next to each other under the Greywacke Arch, their tête-à-tête a cold and silent thing. Moriarty’s nose is red, she sniffs into a handkerchief, and Joan wants, inexplicably, to wrap her in a blanket and feed her soup. How did they get to this place?

“Where have you been?”

“Amsterdam.”

“Why?”

“Business.”

Joan does not pry. She is wearing the gloves Moriarty gifted her. She has worn them all winter.

She says, “Are we in the game?”

One of Moriarty’s eyebrows rises.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to be?”

“I don’t know. What are the rules?”

Jamie’s smile lacks its usual bite. She leans closer (Joan meets her half-way) and whispers in Joan’s ear. 

“We make the rules together, Joan,” she says, her breath hot as her lips brush, briefly, against Joan’s ear.

*****

It is late October. They meet every two months. Sometimes at the park. Sometimes in a restaurant or a cafe. Today they are at the Film Forum, at a screening of _Saboteur_. They are sitting at the back of the theater. Their fingers touch.

“Will you sit for me?” Jamie asks, after the movie has ended. They have stayed behind long after the rest of the theater has gone.

“Why? You already painted me once.”

“Yes, but it’s different now, isn’t it?”

And Joan thinks: 

_Do I know her at all?_

*****

“Have you considered telling Sherlock,” Jamie asks, “about our meetings?”

It is December again. They are in Jamie’s newly-bought Fifth Avenue apartment. It is empty except for the two of them, two glasses, and a bottle of wine.

“I’ve considered it,” Joan says. “I’ve considered a lot of things I never plan on doing.”

“Like this?” Jamie’s riposte is exasperating, as is the curve of her lips. “How long did you consider this before you capitulated?”

“This? And what is _this_?”

It’s a tease, part of the game. Jamie pokes and prods and Joan gives no quarter. 

But the wine is of an excellent vintage, and Joan is somewhat drunk. On wine; on Jamie; on their game.

“Who are you?” she whispers, and Jamie’s face flashes a multitude of things, so many Joan can’t make out what’s real. It doesn’t matter. Jamie’s feelings are her own to reveal.

And maybe Jamie’s a little drunk, too, because:

“I’m yours,” she replies, leaning just as Joan leans, forward, together, until they are in an embrace anyone would mistake for love.


End file.
